


Constables and Courtesans

by rowanrt7



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Bellarke, F/M, Harlots AU, Historical, London, Police
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanrt7/pseuds/rowanrt7
Summary: Bellarke AU based on the the tv show Harlots. Clarke is the heart-of-gold madam of a high class brothel and Bellamy is the new captain of the watch whose strong moral compass is opposed to prostitution. I wonder what will happen!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-chapter work that I’ve already *sort of* written, but I’m going to be posting it every Wednesday and Saturday until it’s over. Right now it has 16 chapters, but I’m sure I can find some more to talk about. It was supposed to be a one-shot that got shockingly away from me.
> 
> Quick notes:  
> 1) Yes, there was a Night Watch before there were White Walkers. They have fewer furs and were not very effective at keeping the peace.  
> 2) Women in positions of power were called “Mrs.” married or not.  
> 3) Although this is an AU fic, Octavia’s characterization is drawn from season 1/2.
> 
> Enjoy!

London, 1763

His first look at Mrs. Griffin, famed whoremonger of London, was across a crowded coffee shop. 

He had been told she was beautiful, had expected that a woman who ran one of the highest priced establishments in the city would have something to recommend her but she had been undersold on all accounts. Sitting alone, with an espresso cup before her, she commanded all attention in the shop. Her blonde curls perched on her head, held back with a blue ribbon. Her gown swept low over her chest. He doubted there was more than a quarter inch of lace between her nipples and the open air. The stones around her neck likely cost more money than he’d earn in a year. 

Although she was surrounded by men, all alone, she seemed completely at ease. He should’ve known she would be. He hadn’t met a whore before, not in his private life at least. He’d arrested plenty. They weren’t usually so implacable when they were being arrested.

For a moment, he hovered in the doorway, surveying her. It was folly for him to be here. For God’s sakes, he was the captain of the Night Watch. He had a reputation to uphold. And yet, he was here. He watched her waiter come by and pick up her cup. She hit him with such a sincere smile he was surprised the man didn’t drop anything. Then her eyes met a fellow patron at another table and the smile fell away instantly. He decided it was time for them to meet. 

Removing his hat, he walked over to her, and gestured to the man at the next table. “A friend of yours?”

Quickly, she looked up, and briefly, so briefly that if he hadn’t been trained he would’ve missed it, she assessed him.“Former friend,” she said. And then, as if she were in her very own home.“Please sit, Mr. Blake.”

He didn’t ask how she knew his name. Instead, he sat down. There was something flat in her speech that took him a moment to place. “You’re from the colonies.”

She smiled at that, a sort of practiced smile which told him he wasn’t the first to make that comment. “Don’t hold it against me for too long.” 

“I was surprised to receive your note.” And damn him, he had been for half a moment. He hadn’t admitted such naivete in front of his men of course. It was they who had urged him to accept the meeting, making it clear that Mrs. Griffin held much power in her dainty white-gloved hands.

She wasn’t buying his act for a moment. Resting her chin on the back of her hand, she leaned into him, her voice dropping. “And here I thought you were a man of the world.” For a moment, her eyes were as wide as the coquette’s she’d no doubt been. Then, just as quickly, she sat back. Men all over the shop yanked their eyes back to their friends, and the volume in the shop rose, everyone pretending they hadn’t strained for a hint of what the pretty madam whispered to the police captain. She clapped her hands together. “Right, to business.”

Bellamy adjusted his grip on his hat. “I don’t believe we have any business Mrs. Griffin. Though he usually wasn’t one to play stupid, he wanted to test her out. 

“And yet, here you are,” she pointed out. “I shall be plain. I had an arrangement with your predecessor. It’s a simple enough thing to continue. I own, as you probably know, a house in Soho. Occasionally, we have events which seem, in certain lights, disreputable.” 

“Even illegal,” Bellamy added. He fought to keep a smile off his face. The nerve of this girl, and she was a girl, not above 20 unless he missed his guess. The nerve of her to sit with the captain of the watch when everyone in the place knew who she was. The foolishness of him, to sit across from her. At 20, to own her house, she must be more formidable than the pink in her cheeks made her appear.

She ignored his interjection. Leaning forward on her elbows, she let her breasts rest on the table, pressing them up even further to the film of lace which barely contained them. He looked down, then flicked his eyes back up again, his expression making clear that he was not impressed with her trick. She persisted. “What I am asking, Mr. Blake, all I am asking, is your discretion.”

“And my absence presumably. You’re saying don’t want any raids.” Where was the waiter? He wanted to order a coffee as well, if only to have something to look at other than her.

Noting that his gaze was fixedly averted from her bust, she sat back and took another sip of coffee. “You’re very welcome in any civilian context. My girls would love to have a beautiful man like you. But only in a civilian context.”

Bellamy cleared his throat. He reminded himself that a compliment from a courtesan meant little. Some men felt attraction to the knowledge that the woman before them could be had for a price. They forgot it was a guarantee and applauded themselves on their charm, their vigor. He was not like that. The falseness of it set his teeth on edge. “You’re very straight-forward about everything.”

Clarke sipped her drink, half hiding a smile behind the brim of the cup. “Many people pretend more morality than they’ve got. Not you, though, I think. I doubt you can be blackmailed, or bribed. And so,” she gestured to him with a wide open hand. “We can be honest.”

Bellamy leaned back in his chair. Although he had expected her requests, he had not expected ... her. She seemed honest. It was her job, he reminded himself.

And although he had acquiesced to his men’s requests to take the meet, he had no plans to follow in his predecessor’s footsteps. “I won’t make a deal with the devil. As you say, you have no hold over me.”

Her laugh bounced around the room, drawing even more attention to her than before. “You flatter me.” The waiter returned with a slice of chocolate cake. She must’ve ordered before he came in. Carefully, she unbuttoned her gloves, and laid them to one side. He caught himself watching her hands. Swiftly, he yanked his gaze back to her face, but she wasn’t watching him. The waiter vanished in his moment of distraction, leaving him drinkless once again.

She looked out the window, remembering something.“I’ve never been called the devil before.” She sliced a minute bite of chocolate cake with her fork. “At least not by a man. Well, not a clothed man ... Well ...”

“I’m pleased to join such rarefied company.” Bellamy said dryly. 

She took another bite of cake, her eyes far away, obviously contemplating the numerous times she’d been called a devil. Bellamy drummed his fingers on the table, wondering if it was best to simply leave. After all, this woman was clearly mad.

Sharply, her eyes focused on him. “Unfortunately Captain, this is not a deal you can walk away from. You may not patronize my girls but your men do. They expect a certain level of service and a ... fair price that I cannot offer without police protection. Deprive them of such an outlet and you may have a mutiny on your hands sooner than you think.” She pushed the half eaten cake away from her and immediately the waiter appeared to remove it. He didn’t dare ask for coffee now. He refused to release her gaze from his. Her eyes, clear blue, betrayed nothing. 

He frowned at her. When the waiter had gone, he said, “Not to mention you know all their names.”

She tipped her head down and for just a moment he could see her if her life had gone another way, if she had been a wife and a mother. Head bent, she looked demure, obedient. The tilt of her smile as she looked back up at him erased the image. It was wily, and oddly inviting. “Not to mention that I know all their names.”

She stood, and he grabbed her by the wrist. He wasn’t sure what he meant to do, only that he refused to let her have the last word.

Instantly, the tenor of the room changed. From the corner of his eye, a trio of men rose from their table. They made no move, only stood. All of them stood over six feet tall. Beneath his grip, Mrs. Griffin’s wrist was relaxed. She leaned towards him without trying to break his hold on her. If anything, she used the twist of her hips to bring him closer to her.

From a distance, they would look as intimates. But her voice was as hard as it was quiet. Delicately, she reached over with her free hand and uncurled his fingers. “Be careful Mr. Blake. You may be the new prince of the watch, but in this neighborhood, I am the Queen.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internet says it isn't Saturday anymore. But I say it is! Welcome back to chapter two. Thanks for coming!

The Gilded Griffin  

Clarke left the coffee shop, feeling the eyes on her back. Normally, she enjoyed a bit of attention, but right now she was distracted. Only long habit kept her back straight as she walked to her waiting carriage.

What a pretty police captain she had now. The last one had always smelled of sauerkraut. And now this one, smelling of cinnamon and with a jawline that should be on the stage ... And freckles. And what she guessed would be wonderful hair beneath the layer of pomade he used to keep it constrained.

She handed her hand to the coachman. “Home, please.”

If he weren’t a police captain ... she sat herself down firmly. That was beside the point. The point of the meeting had been to determine what she was working with. Unknown quantities were distressing. After she met him, she would know how to proceed.

Unfortunately, she didn’t feel the peace she expected. In her experience with men, she had met very few honorable ones. In her experience with the watch, she had met none. The last captain hadn’t been half so beautiful, but he had been pliable. This one wanted nothing to do with her, and she had nothing on him. She wasn’t even sure why he had showed up today. Beyond her vague threats, there was really little she could do. Exasperated, she stuck her feet up on the opposite bench and occupied herself by watching London pass by her window.

Clarke’s house was in Soho. Technically the establishment was called “The Gilded Griffin,” but there was no sign denoting it as such. From the outside, it appeared a middle class home with a white brick front and large windows. Mostly, it was called Griffin’s.

In the evening, the windows were blocked with azure curtains, leaving passerby to guess at what happened behind them. Now though, she could see directly into her front rooms, where Antonia sat on a chair made specially wide for her panniers. She was framed perfectly in the windows, though from her manner, a passerby would never assume she knew that. Before entering, Clarke rolled her shoulders back. The afternoon had wound on as she picked her way back through London traffic and there were sure to be customers inside.

Lincoln opened the door for her and she smiled at him. Lincoln was their bully-man who kept the peace and took the coins as necessary. In the drawing room, besides Antonia in the window, there were two girls flirting with culls. Betsy and Sylvia, girls who, although they weren’t sisters, could be. To further this illusion, they wore identical pale lilac gowns and hairstyles with silver bows.Clarke paused in the drawing room door long enough for the men to notice her and then swanned forward.

“Mr. Roan, Mr. Lillet. How are you enjoying your evening?”

“Excellent Mrs. Griffin,” said Mr. Lillet. Mr. Roan was too busy with Betsy to bother replying. The room, though the day had not yet passed into evening, was surprisingly full. Here men tended to the little pleasantries before the main event. They were catered to by beautiful women serving up wine and smiles, and if Clarke didn’t know better, she would say it was just like any room in an assembly.

The men who came here wanted all the powder of decency. They wanted to believe it was their own charm and mettle which stripped the morals and clothing away from these girls. Clarke settled in her customary chair, taking a glass of port from a circulating maid. For the right price, the maid was available as well. If you paid extra, she would put up a fight.

“How is the trade going Mary-Louise?’ she asked quietly.

Mary-Louise replied in the same tone. “All right, when you consider parliament’s still in session today.”

Clarke glanced out the window where the winter sun sank on the horizon. “Still?”

“You know them lords. Won’t shut up. I ‘spect we’ll have twice as many when the talks let out.”

“I expect you’re right.” Then, louder,  “Remind the girls that on Friday, we’re going to the opera.” Then, quiet again,  “I want all the gentlemen to know we’ll be there. But make sure they wheedle it out of you, ok?”

“Yes miss.” Mary Louise dipped half a curtsy and took her port over to Roan and Lillet. She blushed prettily at some rowdy comment of theirs, but left before their attention was completely captured. Mr. Osborne waited for her, sipping his own port and ignoring all the rest of the girls.

When she went to refill the glasses from the kitchen, he would stop her. Fortunately, Clarke kept port hidden away in the main room for just such an occasion. Though from the looks of it, she wouldn’t need to fetch any.

Clarke saw before the others the movement in the front hall. With a soft clearing of her throat, Octavia captured all the attention in the room. She stood in the doorway an extra beat so that everyone could admire her tan expanse of skin and elaborately pearled hairstyle. Octavia was Clarke’s best girl, though she was finicky about who she slept with. These men never knew that, however. Octavia mastered the art of insinuation and invitation without crossing the line into promises.

Floating into the room, she said to Roan and Lillet. “What a sparse lot we have today. You disappoint me. I thought you were supposed to bring friends.” She held up one gloved hand in response to their protests and stopped in front of Billy, a boy who’d come in with his older brother and heir to the earldom of Auger. He was the kind of lad whose body had grown before his mind had a chance to comprehend what had happened and he stood uncomfortably against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets.

Octavia reached up and straightened his cravat. “I’ll have you,” she said decidedly. The boy’s eyes widened but his brother clapped him on his back. Clarke watched the exchange. She doubted the boy was more than a girl or two removed from being a virgin. If Octavia could make him want her, only her, she would have a customer for years.

“In just a moment.” With that, she flounced over to Clarke. “Mrs. Griffin, I have to tell you something.”

At just that moment, a group of five men came in, all wearing their white powder wigs. “Looks like parliament is out,” Clarke said. She laid her hand over Octavia’s, and lowered her voice. “Take Billy quickly and then come back and help.”

“What all of them?” Octavia said in a low, falsely scandalized tone. “I’ll chafe.”

Clarke shook her head. Making sure she wasn’t overheard, she said, “If we’ve any luck, they’re already half in their cups and we can charge them to sleep here, with no trouble at all for you girls.”

Octavia snorted. “Clarke really, the girls were talking and I know ...”

Before she had a chance to continue, Lord Finn came over to them. He was one of the men who had come in after parliament. Clarke hadn’t recognized him beneath the immensity of his wig. A mistake.

Bending over her hand for a kiss, he asked her, “How much for the prettiest girl in the house?”

Clarke rose.. “Miss Octavia is busy for the moment, but if you care to wait, I can have someone fetch you brandy.” Seeing his dissatisfied face, she tried again. “Port?”

Octavia, sensing danger, slipped away. Over Lord Finn’s shoulder, Clarke saw her slip up the stairs with the second son of Auger in tow. Billy looked close to rapture merely from the touch of her hand against his. If Clarke had any intuition at all, Octavia had just landed a permanent client.

Finn quickly recaptured her attention, leaning in far too closely to her. “I meant you Miss Griffin. How much for a night with you?”

This was not the moment to insist she was married, which most long term clients, especially Finn, knew to be untrue. Instead she smiled, leaning in without flashing any more of her cleavage than was necessary. “You flatter me Lord FInn. But I’m old, dried up. We have plenty of blondes if that is your fancy. Caroline is most sought after. I believe she’s napping, but I can call her down for you.”

“No one but you will do.”

Clarke smiled. “Sit then, and we’ll talk.” Thankfully, by now, Mary Louise had re-appeared, her hair tousled but her tray as steady as ever, and her apron clinking with a bit of extra coin. She held out her tray for Clarke and Finn.

Clarke toasted. “To a beautiful day, and beautiful people.” She held only a little liquor in her mouth, watching as Finn necked his. Before he had finished swallowing, she’d dumped the rest of her drink in a potted fern. With a fierce look at Mary-Louise, she stalled the girl and handed Finn another drink.

They continued in this vein, drinking and making polite meaningless conversation, until Octavia returned with Billy, and Roan and Lillet went away and returned with their respective girls. The sun painted the room pale orange as it descended. The room flared with candlelight, and still Finn and Clarke talked.

They drank too, Finn more than she, but he didn’t know that. Finally, Clarke stood up. “I feel a bit famished. I’m going to see what Mary-Louise has for us for dinner.” The girls all preserved the fiction that Mary-Louise was a proper maid and cook, although most of the actual work was done by Mrs. Alden, a retired courtesan who the men never saw. It would be too much to ask to have Mary-Louise be both harlot and maid.

Finn rose when she did. “No dinner Miss Griffin. I must have you. Now.”

Octavia watched from across the room, in between her forays upstairs. As the clock chimed nine, she sauntered over to them. “I’m a bit famished myself my lord. Would you really say no to a late night repast with me?”

Finn looked up at her, his eyes wide. “What time did you say it was?”

“Just past nine, my lord,” Octavia said, her smile warm. Clarke could see the emptiness in her eyes, though she doubted the drunk lord could.

“I must go,” he half-shouted, standing abruptly.

“Of course my lord,” Octavia said, taking him by the elbow. Clarke took the other

“I shall return,” Finn promised Clarke and pawed at her hand in another imitation of manners.

“I look forward to it, my lord.”

“That was too close for my comfort,” Clarke said.

“You wouldn’t really have gone upstairs with him,” Octavia assured her. Together they left the front vestibule, both of the inured to the laughter and joyful exclamations coming out of the main room.

“As opposed to what? Hitting him over the head with a candelabra?” She turned and started upstairs.

Octavia followed at her heels quietly. She knew Clarke wasn’t finished.

“It’s been years. He was never like this before. What’s changed do you think?” They stopped halfway up the stairs in front of a mammoth hanging mirror. Clarke examined her reflection. To her, her exhaustion seemed written plainly in each line of her face. Her shoulders were stiff, and her dress, so wonderfully pressed this morning, had begun to droop.

By contrast, Octavia stood one step below her, looking every inch a cosseted young lady.“You’re very beautiful.”

“So are you,” Clarke said. “So is every girl here.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Octavia said with a shrug.

Clarke let out her breath, and started up the stairs again. Over her shoulder, she asked, “You wanted to talk about something?”

“Tomorrow. I want to go to bed now.”

“Was Billy too much for you?” Clarke asked in a half teasing tone. “He seemed to like you.”

Octavia looked over the bannister into the room below them. She took Clarke’s silence to mean permission for her to retire for the night. The night’s trade was far from over, but neither of them felt like participating further. “I liked him. Very open to suggestion.”

“Did he need it?”

Octavia chuckled. “Not by the end. He says he’ll be back.”

“You should get a contract out of him. A proper protector.”

“And live alone in St. James square?’

“And only see a man once or twice a week, instead of day in day out.”

“I can handle day in, day out,” Octavia said stoutly.

Clarke smiled, though the other girl couldn’t see. She had said that once too, before she had realized just how nice an empty bed was. “You’d be surprised how quickly you get used to decent rest.

They reached the landing. From behind several closed doors came the sounds of enthusiastic screwing. Neither of them paid any mind. “And what would you do if I left?” Octavia asked.

“That would be my own affair. Think about it. It’s an easier life, especially if you get an annuity from him once he’s finished with you.” They paused in front of Octavia’s door.

Octavia twisted her lip into her mouth and then let it out. It had started as a practiced gesture meant to call attention, but now, when her thoughts were elsewhere, it exaggerated into something unpleasant to see. “He’s only a second son,” she said.

“Everyone has to start somewhere.” Clarke dropped her voice. “And rumor has it, Auger the elder isn’t well.” Clarke mimed coughing into her hand. Consumption, a disease caused by frail lungs, was often thought of as a woman’s disease. Auger had every reason to keep it to himself, but Clarke had heard. London wasn’t really as big a place as people imagined.

Octavia inhaled sharply. “He seems so healthy!”

“Face paint. Look again next time they’re here. Auger the younger may not be younger for much longer. Think on it.” She left Octavia standing with hand wrapped around her half open door, pondering.

Clarke returned to her own room. It was at the end of the hall, so it was a little quieter, but it was not silent. The only time the house was silent was between six and eight in the morning. That magic time was when all the men had left and the cooks were not up and about preparing things. Unfortunately, Clarke often slept through it.

With her door firmly locked, she began the lengthy process of undressing. She could ring for Mary-Louise but she wanted, after a day of confrontations, to be alone for a little while. She left her clothes on a horsehair chair by the door as she removed each piece.

She had hoped, that after a day of dealing with problems, she would have made some progress. Instead, she had another problem. First Bellamy Blake, and now Lord Finn. Wouldn’t it be nice if men could leave women alone for a little while?

She chuckled to herself. Now in a nightgown, she sat in front of her dressing table. “And angels dance on pinheads,” she said to her reflection as she pulled hairpins from her coiffure. landed with small clinks in her china dish. When she had finished dressing for bed, she sat a moment longer and surveyed the room.

Across the room, the house’s account books called to her. She shook her head, and let them be. They would still need doing tomorrow. Bellamy Blake would still be captain of the watch tomorrow. Finn might’ve forgotten her by tomorrow. Well, she could only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always hated Finn. Can you tell? If you like Finn, well, that’s on you but I will warn you this is not the end and he continues to behave badly. Please tell me what you thought! Come back Wednesday the 14th for more!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines day! This chapter has nothing to do with Valentines Day ... please read it anyway.

City Hall 

A few days after his meeting with Mrs. Griffin, Bellamy was dealing with prostitutes again. When he had taken this job, no one had mentioned the mobs of indecent women that were apparently his responsibility. While he didn’t approve of what they did, he also felt a nagging guilt from depriving women of one of their only livelihoods available.

Now, he stood in the hallowed ground of the judge’s quarters, where many a hardened criminal had met their final, bitter fate.Standing before the magistrate today was a young girl arrested under the Indecency Act of 1756. Her hair might be blonde beneath the grease it was caked in. Somebody had attempted to braid it, but it only made her face look smaller than it was.

Bellamy always felt a certain relief in City Hall. This was where men wrangled the chaos of the street into the straight lines of the law. Today, though, he shifted from foot to foot and wished himself far away. That was impossible. As the overseeing officer, his presence was required.

The silence in the room stretched out, uninterrupted by the normal flurry of whispers. Usually children brought before the judge were male. They were commonplace. A girl child’s crime might end up in the broadsides, alongside the latest parliamentary cartoon and the gossip about the highbrow lords and ladies.

Conscious of his audience, the judge puffed up his chest. His voice had the cadence of an intonation. “Charlotte Newbury, you are found guilty of lewd and indecent acts. Your punishment is a fine of twenty pounds.”

The girl gasped. “I ain’t ever seen twenty pounds in me life!” Her voice was childishly high. She grabbed her skirt with both hands, further sullying the garment. It looked to have started life as a lady’s chemise, but that had been many years ago and now the white cloth was stained sooty gray.

The judge’s expression didn’t change. “If you cannot pay your fine, you will be transported.”

The girl’s lily white face blanched further. The room, previously so deathly quiet, rustled with hushed voices and the clink of coins as money changed hands. How many had bet she’d be transported without the option of a fine? Not that it mattered. Before she’d even protested, he’d known that she couldn’t afford it. Hell, he couldn’t afford it.

“I will pay her fine.”  The voice came from the back of the room, and everyone turned to look at the girl who had spoken. In a sea of black frock coats and street urchin rags, she stood out in a pastel blue gown that looked as if it had never seen the filth of a London street. Bellamy squinted at her. She looked familiar, though she was difficult to see her beneath the large straw hat she wore.

The judge sighed. “Miss Heda,” he said in a resigned tone. “Please come forward.”

Men parted as Miss Heda approached the bench. From her pocket she produced a leather pouch. “It’s twenty pounds. You may count it.” As she drew closer, and he watched her cock-sure gait, his eyes narrowed. It couldn’t be.

The judge swept it off to the side, into an open desk drawer. “That won’t be necessary Miss Heda. Take the girl and go.”

Bellamy’s words caught in his throat. Miss Heda was also Mrs. Griffin, whore-runner. He could not possibly be the only person who saw this. Looking around at his fellow officers, he saw only apathy. Nobody came close to the indignation in caught like a firebrand in his chest.

Mrs. Griffin held out her hand to Charlotte who took it with the same reverence Mary accorded the angel Gabriel.

This would not stand. He ducked out the back door. A clerk would stop her before she left and give her a receipt for posting the cole. He waited by the entrance, watching judges and clerks stream in and out of the courthouse. The little girl led Clarke out by the hand, straining against her. If it wasn’t for the grey stains on her gown and the wild snarl of her hair, she could’ve been a child walking with her mother.

But it wasn’t her mother. There was no mistaking Clarke for anyone else. It was amazing it had taken him so long to notice her. She was dressed as a farmer’s wife, with her wide straw hat and her blouse tucked against her neck. A few curls escaped from her bonnet. She was beautiful. She had to be, in her business. He’d noticed it the first time they’d met, but then she had been shoving it in his face. Now, she attempted to play down her appearance.

It was mostly working. Men walked by her without a second glance. Carriages rattled to and fro on the street in front of her; no one slowed down to take a look at an infamous courtesan. No one knew who she was. But he did. Her eyes held him with their peculiar spark.

Mentally, he shook himself. This was not the time. “I don’t know how you have everyone else quiet Miss Heda,” he said, stressing her false name. “But you haven’t got me. Release the girl at once.”

Clarke looked down at Charlotte, and calmly let go of her hand. The little girl’s eyes bounced between them. Her fate had changed so often in the past few minutes, she had no emotion but curiosity. Clarke pulled a shilling from her reticule. “Charlotte, go and get a sugar pig from that stall. Make sure you stay where I can see you.”

The girl nodded and darted off.

“She’s too young,” Bellamy hissed at her. “Just a child.”

Clarke turned her gaze back to Bellamy. “She’s twelve. You’re mad if you think for a second that there aren’t children younger than her on the streets right now doing what she was arrested for and worse. Twelve is a respectable age to start in any business.”

Before he could continue, she held up a white-gloved hand. “I’m not taking her back to my house. I’m sending her to an estate I know in the country. They need a new maid.”

Bellamy felt the tension go out of his shoulders. “So you agree with me.”

Clarke lifted her chin. It drew attention to the height difference between them. When he had met her before, she’d been sitting, but now he realized he stood an entire head taller than her. Absurdly, it made him want to draw her close to him and protect her. At every turn she had shown him she needed no protection.

“No. I just don’t need any girls right now.”

Bellamy stepped closer to her. “Then why pay her fine? What’s in it for you?”

Clarke shrugged, but wouldn't meet his eye. “She needed someone. I could be that someone for her.”

“You’re compassionate,” he said, fighting a sudden grin.

“You’re crazy,” she snapped back. Then, looking about the street, she composed herself. “Believe what you like Mr. Blake. It makes no difference to me.”

Charlotte returned, toting a packet of sugar pigs. She slipped her hand back into Clarke’s without hesitation.

Clarke ran an assessing eye over the girl. Then, she looked back to him. “Good day Mr. Blake.” She was so good at turning her feelings off. He shuddered to think where it came from. Together, they turned to go. He watched her lean over and say something in Charlotte’s ear. She nodded and drew closer.

He waited until they were preparing to cross the street to call after her. “Mrs. Griffin.”. She stopped dead in the street. An approaching cart-driver pulled hard right on his reins in order to miss her. Then, with glacial slowness, she returned to the curb, her eyes on his all the while. Charlotte bobbed in her wake.

She raised her eyebrows, but did not respond to his use of her name.

For a moment, he was quiet, fighting himself. He shouldn’t tell her this. He shouldn’t tell her anything. It was Charlotte who tugged at his heartstrings. Before he could change his mind, he said, “There have been threats against you. Serious ones. Be careful.”

She nodded but made no answer. With a tug at Charlotte’s hand, they disappeared into the crowd, until Bellamy could no longer see even her wide-brimmed hat.

Taking a deep breath, Bellamy returned to the court house. That would be the last he ever saw of Clarke Griffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave some love in the spirit of this day. 
> 
> Let's take a poll: who thinks Clarke and Bellamy will never see each other again?
> 
> Next update Sat, Feb 17th.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back and thank you for reading. I so appreciate the comments that you leave!

Royal Opera House

On Friday evening, two days after putting Charlotte on coach bound for the south of England, Clarke took a selection of her best girls to the theater. Though it had never been expressly said, the idea was less to take in a show, than to be a show.

Everyone powdered their hair and produced jewels from hidden caches. Her girls knew better than to tell Clarke when they were given jewelry, since she got a cut of all their earnings. On theater nights, she pretended not to notice the egg-sized diamond around Antonia’s throat. For most of the girls the jewels were the only pension they had, should they be lucky to live long enough to need one.

They tried to cram themselves into Clarke’s carriage, but there was simply too much skirt to fit. Rather than show favoritism and split the party, Clarke decided to take a hack by herself. She sent the girls on ahead, confident that they would wait for her before making their grand entrance.

The hackney driver wasn’t fazed by the woman in the sapphire-blue gown whose skirts were wider than the carriage entrance. He simply waited for her to edge herself in, careful of both her panniers and the immaculate white wig that towered over her head. He delivered her safely to the theater.

“Wait here for me,” she instructed him.

“Fer how long?” Like so many London residents, the driver’s eyes were already searching traffic, looking for his next fare.

“However long the opera is.”

He turned to her with a blank look.

“About three hours,” she clarified. Before he could look away again, she handed him some coins.

“That ain’t enough for three hours of my time,” the hack driver told her frankly. 

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be that again, but only when I come out of the theater and find you waiting for me.”

He doffed his hat in a mocking gesture. “Yes yer majesty.”

“Excellent,” Clarke said, half to herself. Despite all the turmoil in her life, she was excited for the opera. The show was called “Le donne vendicate,” a new import from Rome. Her Italian was only passable, but any show called The Revenge of the Women was sure to be a winner. Perhaps it would provide her with some inspiration for her own life.

As expected, her girls dawdled at the bottom of the stairs, chatting to each other, seemingly oblivious to the looks they garnered. She took Octavia’s arm. It was one of her particular rules that in public, they should always pair up with someone who looked unlike them. Except for Betsy and Sylvia, whose charm lay in their similarity, standing blonde by brunette, tall by short, pale by dusky, the passerby was forced to look at each of them in turn.

Octavia wore a crimson gown and a pearl and cross necklace better suited to a Catholic queen than a demi-monde. Her hair was curled and arranged low on her head, accented with an ivory fan comb. Although she was born and bred in London, she could be Spanish nobility. By contrast, Clarke’s cool blue gown and pink cheeks suggested the perfect English rose. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t. All that mattered was appearance and together they presented a perfect juxtaposition of exotic and familiar. Anything was available at Griffin’s. It was the best marketing Clarke knew.

They sat in a box, bookended on each side by upper-class families. Wives, spinsters, whores sat in a row and no one could do more than whisper. That was the democratic nature of the opera. 

The first act introduced two sopranos, “the women,” who Clarke assumed, would get their revenge later in the piece. Both were castrati, but she thought they’d done a better than usual job with their makeup. Ferramonte, the lady’s champion, had the best voice. His baritone filled the room, almost entirely cutting over the hushed mutterings from the audience. Aware of Octavia at her elbow, her attention focused on the audience, Clarke let herself be swept up in the opera.

The end of the first act came too soon, and Clarke sat back in the box. Runners hurried to light the candles to the exit, and people filtered out towards the lobby for intermission. “That was lovely,” she said with a smile. “What did you girls think?”  Octavia looked vexed at her for asking the question. Betsy and Sylvia’s smiles were true, but empty. Antonia wasn’t paying attention. Her gaze was focused over Clarke’s shoulder. “Antonia?” she asked.

“How do you think he afforded a ticket here?” Her tone was more malice than speculative, and in unison the rest of them turned to look. Across the way sat Bellamy Blake, police captain. He looked incredibly smart in his deep blue coat. The gold threadwork on the collar and sleeves caught the dim candlelight. He was alone in the booth, but there were two empty chairs next to him, a woman’s shawl draped across one.

“He always liked the opera,” Octavia said, too quietly for anyone but Clarke to hear.

Clarke shot her a sharp look. “And how do you know that?” 

Octavia shrugged with one shoulder, her attention suddenly drawn to a silk thread coming loose from her fan.

Clarke dropped it. She fought conflicting emotions. First of all, how rude of him to interrupt what was supposed to be a straightforward night of fun and soliciting. Then a pinprick of opportunism broke through her annoyance. After all, she wanted to ask him what he meant by ‘serious threats against her.’

He rubbed the back of his neck and examined the crowd below. He shifted restlessly, and then stood abruptly. 

Clarke rose from her chair. “I’m going out to be seen.”

Octavia shot up from her seat, nearly startling Clarke back into her seat. “Clarke, don’t.” Her eyes were intent, her skin paler than usual beneath her rouge. She said nothing more, only blocked the exit with her body. 

“What about us?” Betsy broke in from behind them.

Clarke smiled over Octavia’s shoulder. “Let them whisper about you this interval. We’ll all go out at the second intermission.”

Betsy pouted.

Octavia’s gaze darted from Clarke to the other girls and with an audible grind of her teeth she sat back down. Her skirts puffed up over her chair handles but she didn’t tuck them down. “Don’t do that with your face,” Octavia snapped at Betsy, “You’ll wrinkle.” 

Sometimes it was better just to let Octavia be she.Clarke maneuvered herself around the myriad skirts so that she could leave. Before she did so, she reached out and smoothed back one of Betsy’s bottle-curls. “I’ll send champagne back for everyone,” she promised, and vanished behind the red velvet curtain.

The police captain was difficult to pick out in the main hall. She’d expected, like a plague victim or a leper, that he would repel everyone within a five-foot radius. However, it seemed that law abiding people did not mind standing near him. When she found him he was engaged in conversation with a stooped crone, who, despite being a foot shorter than Blake, managed to tickle his chin with the top of her wig. 

“And the riff-raff around London now! I tell you, in my day we had manners. And now ...” She kept talking-shouting was more of an accurate description-but Clarke stopped listening. She focused on Bellamy, whose mouth was twisted into a half-attentive smile. Commendable.

Discreetly, she brushed his arm with her fan. His eyes flickered a little, but he kept his gaze focused on the old lady. “Meet me in the imperial box in five minutes,” Clarke whispered from behind her fan. She was quite confident, judging by the volume at which the woman was still going on, that her request would be heard only by him.

Bellamy had the good sense not to look in her direction. She had to assume he’d heard her. Possibly not. It was difficult to hear anything except the old bat shouting. Quickly, she sailed away. Men and women parted for her like they were magnetized.

She paused to flag down a passing waiter and had two bottles of champagne sent to her box. The hallways, like the lobby, were full of people trying to see and be seen. No one paid her more than the usual amount of attention as she danced in and out of the clusters of people. Still, it didn’t do to linger. She made her way to the imperial box, acutely aware of the soft thump of her slippers beneath the ripples of conversation.

The imperial box was possibly the only place in the theater which was currently empty. When the King did not attend the theater, no one sat in his box. The curtains to it were drawn both facing the theater and the hall. Candles half lit the space, but compared to the brilliance of the theater, it was hard to see.

Clarke slipped sideways between the red velvet, barely rustling it. She took the seat off to the right, traditionally reserved for the Queen. Facing out towards the theater, she could see nothing but dark curtains. If it weren’t for the heat and babble of the audience seeping through the thin fabric, she could’ve been all alone.

A shaft of light from the hall illuminated the King’s chair and then vanished as the curtain fell back again. Without turning she asked, “Would you sit with me?”

When there was no reply, she chuckled and stood. “No, I suppose it’s too treasonous for you.” 

Before she could turn around, he grabbed her by the waist and shoved her into the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cliffhanger! Yay! A cheap, but important, trick found in every romance! Come back Wednesday Feb 21st if you want to find out what happens next.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re getting to the point where you need to have read the previous chapter to understand what’s happening. If you’re new, please go back and read at least chapter four to understand chapter five. But like, also please read the first three chapters because you’ll like them.

The Imperial Box, Royal Opera House 

The weight of the man standing over her crushed all of the air from Clarke’s chest. She gasped, but her lungs wouldn’t fully inflate. All she could see the swirling pattern of an opera coat. The surprise of the assault faded quickly, replaced by the painful jut of wainscoting against her spine.

She never would’ve expected Bellamy to act this way. A pang of hurt flashed in her chest before she shoved it down, embracing the wave of anger that nipped at its heels. Anger was far better sustenance for courage than distress.

The tight knot in her chest released as she looked into the face of her assailant. It was only Lord Finn. Bits of his natural brown hair slipped from beneath the hard line of his white wig. Though the light made it hard to see him, she thought she detected an uncharacteristic wildness in his eyes. Drink? Or stupidity?

“How I can help you Lord Finn?” she asked, her voice breathy from the compression of her lungs.

“I saw you come in here, and I knew I had to make my case. I need you. Only you can ease this ache in my heart. I must have you. What price will you make me pay?” His words were half-slurred together, but whether it was from champagne or practice, she didn’t know. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

At least this was a problem she could deal with. Clarke forced herself not to roll her eyes at him. She wriggled a little, trying to dislodge the sharp corner of wood decor in her back. Instantly, she regretted it as he leaned into her, interpreting her movement as interest.

“Finn,” she said firmly, deciding that an ambush justified her dropping his title. “Because we are such good friends, I will tell you the truth. I am no longer for sale.”

This was common knowledge among her clients, of course, and Finn was one of the few too obtuse to realize it.

Pressing even further into her, Finn played the last card a man has when confronted with a disinterested woman. “Haven’t you ever been in love Miss Griffin?”

There it was. Love. As if the mere mention of the word, not even directed properly to her, would cause her to swoon at his feet. Instead she fought a wince from creasing her face. She wasn’t about to let him see that he was hurting her.

“Yes, Lord Finn,” Clarke returned. “But never with you!” He didn’t seem to take that as the discouragement she intended. She fought his grip, but he was stronger than she expected. For the first time, she began to feel a little afraid. There was absolutely no chance that anyone would walk in here. Just standing in this box was a crime for a commoner. The opera would begin again soon, and then any scream she could muster would be lost under the music. She doubted anyone would even hear her scream now. The rumble of the audience was so loud.

His eyes had the soft glazed look of a man who has made up his mind to kiss you. In many situations, Clarke courted and anticipated such an expression. Now, she pulled her head as far back as the wall would allow and spoke again in a rush.

“Finn, you should go home to your wife. You should take her to the opera. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her in Town these past few months.” If he would just shift a little to the right, she’d have enough traction to stomp on his foot. “She’s a beautiful woman. I’m sure she would appreciate the chance to buy a new dress...”

“Stop talking about her,” he cut in, and covered her mouth with his. Clarke made an affronted noise, which he seemed to take as encouragement. He pushed into her mouth with his tongue and she bit down, hard, catching a bit of her own cheek for her trouble. At that moment, Finn was dislodged. She was prepared to congratulate herself, but standing behind him, pinning Finn’s arms back, was Bellamy Blake. The anger written on his face made him look positively feline. In a way, he scared her more than Finn did. With Finn, she was sure she could outplay him. She might lose a piece or two in the process, but she would win the game.

Bellamy’s physical strength was clearly impressive. More than that though, was the restraint he showed by simply holding Finn back while his expression clearly suggested he would like to beat him bloody. If she were to pit herself against Bellamy, she wasn’t sure who would come out on top.

“Damn,” she muttered to herself. She pressed her sweating hands into her skirts. Neither of the men paid her any attention.

Bellamy released Finn violently, shoving him across the room. His voice was quiet but tight with anger. “If you ever do that again I’ll have you arrested.”

“You can’t arrest me. Don’t you know who I am?” His wig had slipped a little askew.

Bellamy took one step forward. Immediately Finn shied away. Bellamy’s hands were balled in fists, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.“Get out or go over the balcony. Your choice.”

Finn left.

Clarke wiped the saliva from her mouth. In the low light, she couldn’t tell if there was blood in it. She forced her voice to be steady. “Thank you Mr. Blake for saving my ... dignity.”

His voice hardly changed from the way he spoke to Finn. The anger coursing through him was palpable. “You shouldn’t skulk around in corners. Men will take advantage.”

“Will you?” she asked. The words were out before she could think about them. They were a reflex, a protective tactic when faced with an angry man to turn them back to the business at hand. As soon as she said them she knew she didn’t want to be kissed. Her mouth still tasted like somebody’s blood. Oddly, she hoped it was her own. She didn’t want to be kissed, not now,  but she did want to be held.

Keeping her eyes locked on his, she stepped into him. He stood his ground, hands by his side, acting as though it were a normal social interaction. She noticed his hands relax out of their fists. He wasn’t immune to her. She smiled. The gold filigree thread-work in his jacket scratched her exposed chest, and her heart, which had slowed a bit after Finn’s expulsion, picked up pace again. There was no going back on her words. She could only make the best of it.

She tipped her face up as easily as a debutante. She would put up with a kiss for the chance to have his arms around her.

He didn’t move, either forward or backward. He only stood and let her lean into him. Greedily, she took her chance, giving him more of her weight. It felt wonderful, like she was lighter than she’d been in months. He smelled like fresh-pressed linen and the slight musk of long-stored clothes. It was oddly comforting. The candles cut sharper shadows into his cheekbones, making him look older and more handsome than he ought to be in this moment.

Only an inch or two separated them, but he didn’t move. His voice was detached. Better than angry, but still not pleasant. “Do you think acting like this is what creates situations like the one with Lord Finn?”

She dropped her face. Simultaneously, she was grateful and disappointed he wasn’t going to kiss her. “I do not. Men are men no matter how a woman acts.” Her words were muffled, but he heard her. The sudden tenseness of his body told her that.

She pressed her forehead into his chest, and for a long moment they stood quietly. Outside, the second act of the opera trilled its opening notes. By degrees, they drew closer, and she felt one of his arms envelop her. With sure fingers, he massaged the back of her neck. Her stress caused by Finn, the week, and even Bellamy himself, fizzled under his touch. The police captain was no longer standing in the dark with her. Now he was only a person, and as she suspected the first time they’d met, the person beneath the uniform was good. She reveled in it.

When the soprano began to sing, Clarke pulled herself away. Without looking at him, she said, “Thank you.” Quickly, she retreated to her box without another word.

Bellamy watched her square her shoulders before she left the box. Immediately, he felt like smacking his head into a wall. His fingertips burned with the heat and softness of her skin. Like a starving man who is given a bit of bread, his hunger was now even more acute. Not that it mattered.

Clarke was walking away with the only opportunity he’d ever get. Even in the rare event that they ever met again, he doubted she would ask him to kiss her again.

In the next breath, he berated himself. There was nothing sporting about kissing a woman who has just been assaulted by another man. He shouldn’t even have come in here in the first place. Surely it was illegal. Kissing a madam, also illegal.

As much as he wanted to say he had no idea what he was doing here, he had to admit he did. She entranced him. He had wanted something like this to happen. Not the bit with Finn, but what might’ve happened if he’d only gotten here first. That was what she wanted too, or she wouldn’t have invited him here.

He dusted the white powder from her wig off the front of his coat. “Hubris,” he muttered to himself. He resolved to forget it. After all, he had an opera to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, shoutout to those who were like duh, it isn't Bellamy. I see you!
> 
> Did you think they were going to kiss? Is it skeevy to kiss somebody who’s just been attacked? Or are you team “sexual tension can not be tamed, gotta do what you gotta do.”? I’m really asking guys. Please leave a comment with your thoughts. New chapter Feb 24!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm sorry that this is late. I know it's a crappy thing to do to say I'll post something and then ... not. But also guys, sometimes after work I go out instead of going home to the lovely internet. So, here's my compromise. We're going to say it will PROBABLY update Wednesday and Saturday. If that's not good enough for you, take it up with AO3 and get them to put an auto-scheduley thing in here. I know I want one.
> 
> and now, on with the story!

Outside the Royal Opera House

Clarke wasn’t sure what happened in the second act of the opera. She knew that she shepherded her girls out to the lobby for the second intermission, and reflected vaguely that they spoke with poise to various unattached gentlemen. She herself stood by the wall and kept a smile fixed on her face.

The third act included much wailing. She used much of her mental energy to keep her eyes on the stage instead of searching about for either Finn or Bellamy. Futilely, she tried not to wonder if either of them were looking at her. There were eyes on the box. She could feel it in the back of her neck, but it could be any of the patrons they’d spoken to. It could be anyone looking at her girls next to her.

When Ferramonte, the lady’s champion, prevailed and the curtain went down, Clarke sighed with relief. Many patrons would linger, getting in their last bits of conversation, but the key to mystery was knowing when to disappear. She and her girls left immediately. The show was over. Encores were given only at Griffin’s.

Outside, they piled into Clarke’s carriage, buzzing with champagne and music. Clarke waited on the curb. Sylvia stuck her arm through the window. “Ride with us!” she implored. Clarke took her hand. “There isn’t room,” she said.

“We don’t mind about our skirts,” Sylvia told her. From the depths of the carriage, Antonia gave her a glare that suggested that some people did care about their skirts thank you very much. 

“We had a tremendous night,” Clarke said, “and we’ll celebrate when we get home. I’ll see you there.” She waved the carriage off. The night was far from over; it was doubtful any of them would get to bed before sunrise. Hopefully, they would have time for a glass of champagne before the culls descended. 

She looked forward to the carriage ride. Her rented hack crept through the embossed carriages that waited for their owners to appear. It would be nice to have a few minutes to herself. Even standing on the side of the road took effort. She kept her head up, her gaze indifferent. You never knew who was watching, judging.

At least her class meant that they snickered behind their hands instead of in her face. It didn’t matter.  Would she prefer to be looked at with respect instead of derision? Of course. But she was not alone in that ambition, and she didn’t waste time on goals she couldn’t accomplish. Her girls looked at her with respect. That was enough for now. 

Her coach rolled past her, then stopped abruptly. Rather than wait for the driver to back up, thus proving he didn’t know his client and embarrassing her, she went to it.There was no footman, but she knew how to open a carriage door. 

She climbed into her borrowed coach and let the door shut out the raucous babble of the theater. Passing a second pouch of coins through the grated window, she told the driver the address. He made a noise to the horses and they started a little, stopping immediately behind another carriage. The driver’s delay in arriving meant that they were now stalled in the glut of carriages trying to leave.

“Never mind,” Clarke called through the grate. “No harm in waiting.” She preferred looking at the peeling wood panel interior instead of the changing vagaries of faces. Clarke rolled her shoulders. Putting her fan to one side, she undid the top two buttons on her dress. It offered precious little relief. She did them up again. What she really needed was to undo the stays beneath. For the theater, she had cinched her waist a little more than usual. She buzzed with an entirely different energy than her companions. The adrenaline of the first intermission, which she had sat on for two hours, surfaced again. 

She shifted in her seat, and tried to think through her problems. Finn would need to be dealt with. Appeased. It was possible she could still talk him into Betsy, the blonde with the most resemblance to Clarke. If he insisted, she would have to lose his business, which meant picking up somebody else’s. There were only so many lords in London, and even fewer who could be wooed to her house. That meant she’d need to get a few men to compensate for the loss of one. And that meant ... her train of thought was interrupted by the carriage door opening from the the street side. 

Bellamy Blake swung himself in, his cheeks rosy with exertion. “Mr. Blake!” Clarke started and then stopped. She was unsure where she was going.  Her heart spiked at the sight of him. She felt as if she were rattling about inside her skin. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. He sat down across from her. Somehow, he seemed larger in the small space.

“That was hubris before,” Bellamy said. “And hubris was Odysseus’s mortal sin. I won’t repeat the Greeks.”

“What was hubris?” Clarke asked him. She was mildly surprised that a police captain knew the meaning of the word, but felt that that was rude to point out.

“Thinking I could walk away from you.” 

The words hung in the air for a long moment. This was tricky, Clarke thought. She couldn’t press this, much as the heat rising under her skin wanted her too. She had to give him an out.

“I don’t think so.” With effort, she added,  “It was compassion, and I needed it right then.” That would be the end of it. He would leave, and she would spend the whole ride home yelling at herself for pushing him to it.

Instead, he shifted so he sat next to her. His face was serious as he asked, “Is compassion what you need now?”

Say yes, Clarke told herself. Say yes, and make him leave. Keep him away from you. This will not end well. He had never been this close to her before. There was a triangle of freckles like stardust beneath his eye. Clarke licked her lips. “No,” she said hoarsely. 

“Good,” he said. There was a long moment as he stared at her letting his face explain himself, that he intended to kiss her and she let him look, enjoying how desire darkened his eyes and suffused the space between them. She made no move towards him, only watched his roving gaze over her mouth and eyes, dipping briefly to her breast before returning to her face to ascertain that there was only acceptance in her. 

When he kissed her, it was with determination, something he had set his mind to and would follow through with. She waited, yielding to his touch with softness and openness and sure enough, he began to kiss her properly. Cradling her head in his hand, his body leaned over hers. She kissed him back until it was no longer his action, but their conversation. He tasted of cinnamon, sweet with a hint of spice. For a while, she let herself drown in it.

Then she remembered she was a madam and professionals are aware always of their clients needs She reached for the fall of his trousers.He plucked her hand away and pressed it against the carriage cushion. She tried again with the other hand, and with a chuckle, he pinned that back as well. He seemed content simply to kiss her, both her hands suspended above her, his body tantalizingly just out of reach. She arched her back towards him, but couldn’t reach. Heat coiled in her midriff, and there was nothing to alleviate it. Annoyed, she let out a little huff, and felt his smile in their kiss.

He dropped his mouth to her jaw, her neck, the tops of her breasts. Trapped between his weight on her skirt and his grip on her, she could do nothing but try to keep the hum of pleasure in the back of her throat. 

With a final searing kiss, he let her go. Her skin prickled at the absence of touch.“What are you trying to prove Blake?” she asked. Thwarted desire irked her.

“Nothing,” he said. Though they no longer touched, they were still locked together, only half a breath apart. “I want you.” He looked over her figure with specific intensity. His eyes were still dark with desire, and Clarke waited for him to continue. A kiss, an embrace. He must continue, in some fashion. In any fashion. All he did was look, though if he’d asked, she would’ve disrobed entirely. Anything to get him to touch her again. Too impatient to sit beneath his gaze any longer, she reached for him.

Easily, he evaded her. She paused in confusion, and he ran one finger along the curve of her jaw. He looked at her like he might be studying a crime scene, trying to memorize every detail and understand it at the same time. She half turned into his hand.

Then he said, “Let’s never do this again.” Before she had a chance to process his statement he shoved open the other carriage door and exited. He turned back to her. Behind him, the London street glistened with rain she hadn’t heard start to fall. Formally, he bowed to her. “Good evening,” he said. The clang of the door behind him echoed like a cymbal through the small space.

Clarke bit down hard on her lip. The carriage was still stuck behind the theater traffic. If she screamed, everyone in the surrounding vehicles would hear. She settled instead for scrunching her hands in her dress, until the fabric was taut enough she could rip it without effort. 

Then, letting out her breath, she began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally with the kissing right? It could be worse. I just read a romance novel where they DID NOT KISS UNTIL PAGE 162. Now you know how my weekend is going. How is your weekend going? Pretty fantastic if you’re reading this story. Oh wow. That was too much self-promotion. That hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

The Gilded Griffin

Luckily, when Clarke got home, the girls were already occupied with the night’s guests. She was able to sneak off to bed without a fuss. Should she have stayed up and supervised? Yes. But she was tired of doing what she was supposed to. After removing her wig and face paint, she found she didn’t have the energy to undress, so she only loosened her bodice and stays, and then collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

Mary Louise shook her awake at half past eight in the morning. She stuffed a letter in front of Clarke’s face before her eyes were even open. “The boy brought it. The one you said to watch out for.” 

Clarke crumpled the letter in her fist. She sat up, her head spinning from the lack of sleep, and the extended compression of her lungs. “How many men slept here last night?”

“Four. But nobody else is awake, and it was the opera last night. Mrs. Alden ain’t got around to cleaning everything yet. ”

Of course not. Standing, Clarke tossed the letter into the embers of last night’s fire. It curled at the edges,  but stayed  belligerently whole. “Get them all out the back door. And make sure the girls are dressed.” Mary Louise looked at her with wide, frozen eyes. “Now!” Clarke snapped.

She scurried out of the room, and Clarke sighed. The letter caught in the grate and vanished into ash. It bore only two words.  _ Be ready. _ Raids were part of the business but why today? It was honestly rude to raid a brothel on a Saturday morning. Unsporting not to give her half a chance to prepare.

She assessed her appearance. Her hair, which had been pinned tightly to her head to make room for the wig, now half-fell in spirals. Some of the pins valiantly hung on. Rather than redo it, she simply yanked the rest of pins out and let her hair fall around her shoulders. Then she wiped the leftover kohl from under her eyes. There was nothing to be done about the dress; changing it would take half an hour at least. Better to be overdressed than not dressed at all. The silk was crumpled where she’d slept on it, but she doubted men would notice. There. If it weren’t for the shadows beneath her eyes, she’d look almost maidenly.

Clarke cast a quick glance around the room. The bed was unmade, but she let it be. Through the doorway, her office was clean, if a little vacant feeling. Her easy chair sat next to the burnt out fire, the back of it covered with a Chinese silk shawl. Beside it stood a small table with a decanter of port and a novel resting on it. Her desk was scrupulously clean. There was nothing that could be faulted in her record books, which kept lists of expenses such as food, wine and new dresses for the girls. 

The only incriminating thing was the register of income, which included names of clients. Whenever possible, she used nicknames but a clever man could figure them out given a bit of time. And she had no doubt Bellamy Blake was a clever man. Her safe was concealed behind a painting of the seashore that she herself had painted. It seemed entirely inadequate protection. But it was all she had. She locked the register in and went out to see how preparations were going.

Girls ran to and fro. Mary Louise’s voice filtered from Antonia's room. “Now means now Mr. Bradbury. Leave the waistcoat behind.” Mr. Bradbury, a man portly before his time, staggered out the door, his shirt half done, Mary Louise on his heels. Clarke followed the two of them downstairs. They disappeared through the kitchen door. In the parlor, Mrs. Alden lay out the breakfast set with practiced efficiency. Champagne bottles littered the floor and Clarke gathered them up. 

Betsy and Sylvia jostled in front of the mirror, tucking breasts further beneath their gowns, and tying their hair back. Antonia appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath. Her dress was slack at her hips; she hadn’t had time to get properly dressed but she had thrown a fichu over her breasts. “Antonia, come down here and gather these up,” Clarke half-shouted, gesturing to the shawls and stockings which were thrown around the room like Christmas tinsel.

As she rushed to do so, Antonia said over her shoulder, “Octavia’s still got Francis tied up upstairs. I knocked but I don’t think she heard me.”

Clarke swore emphatically. What good was it keeping police on the payroll if they raided her home anyway?

Mrs. Alden snorted.  “It’s eight in the morn. Men.” She put together plates of food and set them about the room for girls to sit next to. They had no proper dining room to eat at, so they usually took meals in the kitchen, but this was to be a tableau.”

“Mary Louise, go into the kitchen with Mrs. Alden. I will deal with Octavia.” 

Betsy and Sylvia sat down. Despite their flushed faces, they looked calm enough. The other girls flitted around, everyone trying to look nonchalant. She rushed upstairs, nearly colliding with Antonia on her way back down. 

Without knocking, let herself into Octavia’s room. The girl started. She stood just inside the door, hair unbound, with a riding crop in her hand. She had circles beneath her eyes, but a satisfied look in her eye.

Francis, tied to her bedpost, was entirely naked. 

Clarke didn't bother to address him. “The watch is coming. Get him out of here.” At that moment, they heard the door open below them. Mary-Louise’s voice, specifically raised, said, “Hello gentlemen. How can I help you?” 

Octavia and Clarke swore in unison. Francis strained against his bonds. It was one thing for a man to be found on top of a whore. It was quite another for him to be found tied up and at the mercy of a young girl, and for the world to know he paid to do so. Clarke pulled her knife from her pocket and cut the ribbons. He pulled his gag from his mouth himself.

“I can’t be seen here. I have parliamentary ambitions!”

“And we would never want to jeopardize those sir. Octavia will take you down the servant’s stairs.” She turned her gaze to Octavia. “And she’ll make sure you get out alright.” Octavia nodded. She collected Francis’s shirt and trousers.  

“Trousers now. Shirt later.” He obeyed her and they left. Clarke turned the other way, prepared to physically block anyone who wanted to come upstairs. She swanned back onto the landing. Mary Louise was doing her best. The police officers were stalled at the entrance as she pretended not to be able to read the warrant they presented to her. Bellamy Blake stood over her, quietly but firmly pointing out the lines and what they said.

“It means we have a right to search the premises Miss.”

The captain of the watch out to raid her little brothel. If she weren’t so annoyed with him, she would be flattered. Less than 12 hours before, he had leapt into her carriage and kissed her. Mrs. Alden’s indignation was spot on. Men.

“Sod this,” said one of his officers from behind him. “It’s a cunny house and we’re searching it. Move girl.” The man pushed past Mary-Louise, an easy feat considering he was a foot taller than her.

Bellamy looked at him, his mouth downturned, but he stepped around Mary-Louise and into the house. Clarke gripped the banister with both hands. Bellamy raised his gaze up to hers. The look in his eye pinned her in place. It was almost the same look he’d given her in the carriage before he kissed her, the same one he’d given her when she’d dared him to do so in the theater. Had he really thought they’d never see each other again? Or had he believed that once acted on, his lust would evaporate? Hers hadn’t. In fact, she could feel it now, buzzing under her skin, begging to be expressed.

What held her in check was the anger simmering between them. She was pissed, understandably, that he was here. He too held his jaw tightly, and he looked the way she remembered from their first meeting. Then, his spine had been straight, his eyes cold. Her words floated back to her.  _ In this neighborhood, I am the Queen. _ So that was it. Lust and anger in equal measure. He was here to show her that she wasn’t all-powerful. He was here to punish her for his own desires. How dare he.

That helped squash her desire to dash down into his arms. But she didn’t break eye contact. She refused to yield. Let him look at her and judge. She was beautiful, and he knew it. And he wanted her, and she knew it, and he could want her all he liked. He wasn’t going to have her. She lifted her chin. He broke away from her gaze, tucking his warrant into a notebook.

The other officers stomped their feet, trying to get warm, and waited for orders. There were five of them, two more than he really needed. Only one had frequented her house before. Jim ... something. The girl who’d had him would remember. They always made notes of the police officers. He looked at the carpet instead of around him as the others did. After all, he knew what the house looked like.

Octavia came up behind her. From the corner of her eye, Clarke saw she’d put her dressing gown over her shift. Smart. “Oh no,” she said, so quietly Clarke knew she wasn’t supposed to have heard. 

“What is it?” she demanded, her eyes still on Bellamy. He spoke to his officers now, while pointedly ignoring her. Obviously, he expected her to come downstairs. 

“That’s my brother,” Octavia whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist! Except not really, b/c you knew that was coming. Please leave a comment if you liked it, and tell me what you where you want the story to go! This is pretty much where I’ve written to, though I have some smutty plans in the works. Thanks for reading. :)


	8. Chapter 8

The Gilded Griffin

After the initial blaze of shock, Clarke barely kept herself from crying out with frustration. She pressed her lips together, and spared a quick glance at Octavia. “You didn’t see fit to tell me that the man in charge of policing our  _ home  _ and our  _ customers  _ was your brother?!” In an effort to keep her voice quiet, the end of her sentence broke an octave higher than she meant to.

Octavia crossed her arms. “I did try. But there never seemed to be time.” 

“Right. Okay, go get the manifest from my safe and put in under the false bottom of your wardrobe. Then come downstairs.”

“Why not leave it in the safe?”

“Where would you look, a whore’s safe, or a sister’s unmentionables?

Octavia reached out and grasped her hand. She and Clarke locked eyes for just a moment, and nothing more needed to be said.  

Clarke nodded sharply, looking back to the policemen gathered below. Finally, Bellamy acknowledged her. “Would you care to join us Mrs. Griffin?”

She floated down the stairs to them, but stopped short of polite conversational distance. “What is the meaning of this gentlemen? Why are you accosting my maid? I run a lodging house for young ladies.”

The man who had elbowed past Mary-Louise snorted. His nose was an unpleasant shade of red. Bellamy gave him a stern look.

Bellamy looked in her direction, but didn’t quite meet her eyes. “We have reason to believe this is a deplorable house, and if we find any evidence at all that you have engaged in ... disreputable activities, we will be forced to arrest every resident of this so-called boarding house.”

Clarke wondered if it would hurt him if she punched him in the nose. Probably not. She smiled instead. It was her sweet disarming smile, and she saw it affect both Jim and the redheaded officer just behind him. It had no effect on Bellamy. “Search all you like gentlemen. But please don’t disturb my boarders. It’s breakfast time.”

The fattest one of them cast a quick glance into the parlor. Sylvie and Betsy sat closest to the open archway, their backs ramrod straight as they tucked scrambled eggs into their mouths. With an audible smack, he licked his lips. He had the round-brimmed hat of a Quaker. Excellent. He’d brought the morality police.

The Quaker was distracted by Red Nose as he pointed to Octavia, just now coming down the stairs. “Not a bawdy house?” he asked, “That one in’t even dressed properly.”

“I was asleep,” she replied crisply. “In my room.” She turned and pointed to the top of the stairs where a door was ajar. She didn’t chance a glance at Clarke, but the message was clear. “What is all this commotion?”

Clarke answered before the police could. “These gentlemen believe we are a house of ill repute. They would like to search the premises.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Griffin has told you that we are not, so I may go back to bed? It’s quite early, you know.” She posed this question to Bellamy. Clarke held her breath. She wasn’t sure to what extent Bellamy was aware of his sister’s activities, but she was sure this was the worst place to find out.

“You must sit in the parlor with the others, miss,” Bellamy said without looking up from his notes.

“Yes, sir.” Octavia gave the second word a little too much weight to be properly polite. As she walked by him, he lifted his gaze and nearly dropped his notebook. 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. The ferocity in his voice caused Clarke to take an involuntary step back.

Octavia blinked at him with that open, guileless gaze she did so well, and which was entirely false. “I was asleep, up there,” again she indicated the room. “And now I am going to sit in the parlor with the other boarders.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and Clarke bit back a grin, as even the Quaker followed the gesture with his eyes. Nearly every man believed Octavia was the most important woman in the room, because she believed she was the most important woman in a room. 

A muscle jumped in Bellamy’s jaw. “Patton, Jim, search upstairs. Alfie and Bob, take the kitchen and service buildings. Tom, watch the girls.”

The redhead grinned. “With pleasure Mr. Blake.” He must be Tom.

Bellamy ignored him. “Mrs. Griffin, I shall need to see your records.”

“I’d be happy to show you. They’re in my study.” They went upstairs, Bellamy at Clarke’s heels. She could feel the anger emanating off him. Maybe she was imagining the heat of his breath against her neck? After all, he wouldn’t walk that close to her. Not now.

As soon as the door to her study shut behind them, he demanded. “What have you done to Octavia?

“I don’t know what you mean. Is she of some importance to you?”

“She’s my ...” he broke off. Instead he busied himself poking around her room. She crossed her arms and watched as he lifted pillows and opened drawers. He paused in front of her painting. “That’s good. Very lifelike.”

“Thank you,” she said shortly. “I painted it.” 

He nodded, and promptly took it off the wall, revealing the safe behind. “Open this please.”

She did so, revealing the contents. A paste-ruby necklace in a velvet box.  A small stack of money from the past few days. Her expensive Indian ink paints. He picked up a small copper cog and flipped it before replacing it. 

“Now your register.”

“As we are not a club, I have no register. However, I can show you my records of income and expenses.”

“That’s how you want to play it?” he asked, sitting heavily in her chair before the fire. The water-silk shawl puddled on his head. As he removed it, he said, “the very first time we met Clarke, you said you ran a bawdy house.” Clarke snatched the shawl from his hands before it could end up on the floor. 

For just a moment, he held on in gut reaction, and her hand tangled with his. He hated the way she smiled at him when she wasn’t thinking about it, a smile that was more sympathetic than either of them cared to admit. Then something sparked in her and her smile brightened.

“Is that how you think about me?” She folded the shawl in her hands but she was still bent over him, propped up precariously. Bellamy searched his mind for some way to answer her, an insult, a call back to professionalism, but nothing came to mind. He felt caught beneath the extension of her arm, holding herself away from him by leaning on the couch. Superior strength was his; he could unbalance her with one gentle tap at the bend of her elbow and she would crumple into him. Then he could gather her in his arms and ... he shut that thought down. Though the law had forced him to this, he was its soldier, and he would do his job.

“As a bawdy house madam?” he said, pleased his voice sounded disapproving.

“As Clarke.” She said her own name softly, holding it in her mouth like a piece of candy. Briefly, her gaze dropped to his lips, and he had a peculiar sense that she had once again turned the tables on him. The peculiar part was that he didn’t mind at all.

He swallowed hard. He hadn’t even realized he’d used her first name. He wasn’t even supposed to know it. She’d never said. He’d only heard it used in the third person. Without waiting for a response, she pulled back, so quickly that the heat of her lingered for a moment after she withdrew. From her desk, she withdrew two ledgers, which she presented to him, in a business like fashion, and moved to stand against the wall. 

Briefly, Clarke closed her eyes. She couldn’t have kissed him. There was a fine line between flirtation and foolishness. Kissing a police captain as he raided her brothel was asking to be arrested for solicitation. That would be a permanent problem that long outlasted the brief pleasure of kissing him.

But if she had, there wouldn’t be a furrow in his brow right now. No, right now she would have her hands in his hair. Unlike many men, Bellamy wore no wig, and so there was nothing to stop her from ruffling his curls. Nothing to stop her from climbing into his lap and unbuttoning the high collar of his uniform and kissing her way down his neck. She licked her lips. 

“You buy your lodgers clothes?”

Clarke started. She realized she’d been staring at the sliver of skin above his collar. “On occasion.”

“Why?”

“Generosity.”

He raised an eyebrow. Clarke crossed her arms across her chest. She was tired of being on the defensive. Tired of what was, essentially, a charade. He knew as well as she that she ran a brothel. But he was confined by the law to produce evidence. This wasn’t Covent Garden, where if you were a woman you were assumed a whore. Respectable people lived in this neighborhood.

“Mr. Blake, why are you here?”

“We have a warrant.”

“With whose name testifying that we are an improper house?”

“That’s confidential.”

“So are my records.”

“Clarke,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. That was the second time he’d said her name. His implication was clear. Leave him be. Let him do his job. He should know by now that she had no intention of letting anyone compromise her or her girls. 

“Have you found anything in them which suggests impropriety?”

His sour expression made her press her lips together to keep from laughing. “You know I haven’t.”

“Then go please. My girls deserve rest.” 

He stood, and gestured for her to go through the door first. Before she could though, his arm shot out and trapped her. His voice was ragged, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. “Tell me about Octavia.” The smell of cinnamon that seemed his constant companion reached her nose. She inhaled deeply before turning.

His brow was tense, his eyes pleading. She brushed one of his curls back into place slowly. She wanted to enjoy every moment he stood next to her, circumstances be damned. “She’s happy, and healthy. You don’t need to worry about her.”

His head jerked in an approximation of a nod.

Clarke smiled. The tightness of his face hadn’t eased a bit. “She’s lucky to have you worry about her. I wish I had someone who worried about me.”  Afraid he would correctly read into her words, she lowered her eyes. She opened the door so swiftly he nearly toppled into her, but she danced away from him. Before he had a chance to react, she fled downstairs to her girls. 

They waited with clasped hands as the minutes passed. Bellamy came down the stairs. He kept his gaze away from Clarke. She let out her breath a little. They were leaving. He jerked his head in the direction of the door and his officers followed him like ducklings.

“I found sumfin!” shouted the Quaker from the top of the stairs. Everyone’s eyes swiveled upwards. His face was split into a triumphant grin that revealed a missing canine. He held something aloft as he sprinted down the stairs.

Clarke’s stomach knotted. At her elbow, Octavia hissed out her breath.

“Pig’s balls,” Octavia muttered.

In his hand was Clarke’s ledger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My BFF is in Hawai’i for her bday. I’m in front of my computer. Please say nice things about this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Well what did you think? Have you figured out where this is going yet? Please leave validation in the form of compliments/kudos/constructive criticism. I’ll definitely be taking it personally so please be polite.


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